


Freedom

by Narlth



Category: Damien (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narlth/pseuds/Narlth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the anti-Christ is not something you can cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> For hurt/comfort bingo May challenge.  
> Prompts: whipping, medication, depression, small fandom.
> 
> This was written on my phone as my laptop is broken so apologises for the likely higher number of errors than normal.

A Cure.

That’s what they had offered him, that’s why he had trusted them. The offer of a way to make all this craziness disappear, a way to be free of it all, but most importantly with the guarantee that the darkness would be gone for good. 

That was what he they told at least, but as he was coming to learn, where this _thing_ was concerned everyone had their own motives, their own goal, and it most certainly didn't involve any consideration for his own feelings. 

Even now he could feel the injuries on his back pull with each movement he made; a painful twinge that prevented him from forgetting about what had happened.

Not that there was a high probability of him being able to do that ever, even after he was long healed. It was like the memories had been burned behind his eyes, into his very essence. 

His eyes slipped closed, forehead coming to rest against hands clasped over knees. 

The itch in his arm taunted him, do it; make it all disappear. He shoved that thought aside, he had to be stronger than that, he couldn't give in and leave this burden to someone else. 

No. 

He would never be able to endure the guilt of doing such a thing, regardless of what awaited in the other side. 

He had to learn to bare it himself. But surely he was allowed his comforts, his own desires, he was still only… _well_ maybe not entirely human, if certain parties were to be believed, but he still felt as a human did. 

Rubbing one hand up his face he let his eyes fall towards his bathroom, the grey floor their feeling like a mirror to his soul. 

Rational thought would have had him dispose of the drugs after he’d all but died last time, but some part of him just couldn't let, craved the feeling of control, that came from just knowing they were there, that he had the means to do it gave him. 

He had somehow managed to convince everyone else he had gotten rid of the it, thigh true be told he could not explain how. 

Gritting his teeth he straightened, his shirt had become stuck to the blood that stained his back, and now he could feel the fibres as they clung there. It seemed everything was out to make his life miserable. 

The lash marks would need bandaging soon, lest they become infected, he sincerely doubted they would have given him the courtesy of making sure their whip was clean. 

Standing he headed to his bathroom, intending to have a shower, getting clean and warm should help settle his emotions. 

Removing his shirt was tricky, and by the time he succeeded fresh blood was trickling down his back, hot and thick as his mixed with that that had dried their previously. 

Stepping under the hot spray he flinched, the first drops that hit his back felt once more like the bite of a whip, tearing into his skin, burning.

In his mind’s eye he saw them again, long flowing robes that in any other situation may have looked grace carried an air of finality. The one member that stood at the head of the group, their identity concealed behind thick, wooden fabric raised a hand, the implement of torture held loosely - innocently - almost. 

It was with a jolt that Damien snapped back to the present, eyes opening to fall on feet stood in blood tinted water, his chest heaving with great gasps. 

He needed to escape, he couldn’t -

Stumbling out of the shower, he had just enough forethought I wrap a towel around his waist before he was routing through his cupboard, wet hands slippery, until he found his prize. 

His hands shook as he pulled the needle from it's home, the silver of the metal glinting almost prettily in the low lighting. 

He filled it without another moment's thought, retrieving his makeshift tourniquet, and tying off his arm. 

That’s when he stopped, thoughts catching back up with him. 

_Did he really want to do this? Would this really help?_

Who was to know.


End file.
